The Faded Bouquet
The train groaned against the rails, a low, metallic complaint that vibrated through the soles of my shoes as it decelerated into the platform at Blackwood. I stood with my suitcase in hand, watching the mist swirl around the headlight, a white veil that obscured the station’s brick facade and the figures waiting on the gravel. My name is Elias Thorne, and I was thirty-four years old, an...
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